Welcome To The Cell
by get-a-grip38
Summary: Sucre as he finds out he's getting a new cellmate, and meeting Michael for the first time. Set right before the start of the show. Oneshot, drabblish. No slash.


Welcome to the Cell

Summary: Takes place just before Michael comes to Fox River. This oneshot focuses on Sucre as he finds out he's going to have a new cellie and meets Michael for the first time. NO SLASH, and not MiSa in any way at all. Just kind of drabble.

Disclaimer: Some of the stuff at the bottom appears in the pilot episode, but I don't own Prison Break.

Rating: K+

Enjoy, and please review!

* * *

"Word on the block's that you're getting a new cellie, Sucre." The man on the other side of the fence remarked dully. Between the badge and the swagger, he was easily identifiable as a CO. Fernando Sucre briefly thought that it must be a very slow day for the CO if he was willing to converse with the cons. Or maybe the CO had gotten on the bad side of one of the higher bosses, and was temporarily being shunned from guard social circles. Perhaps Sucre could earn some good behavior points for responding. 

"Who said that?" Sucre asked, equally as casual as he continued to pick at a hole in the arm of his shirt. He'd learned to take everything he heard through the grapevine here with a grain of salt. Tens, if not hundreds, of inmates were scattered throughout the courtyard, savoring their yard time, and between the bright sun and the too-warm-for-comfort temperatures, most were stretched out somewhere, trying to avoid wasting energy.

The CO shrugged. "Bellick was asking around in the break room which of you criminals had an unfilled bed." He replied, kicking at the dusty dirt with the toe of one boot.

"The badges have a break room?" Sucre was incredulous. Somehow, funding the furnishing of a very optional break room didn't seem like a high priority in comparison with all the other things the state of Illinois surely had to pay for.

"Tax dollars gotta go towards something. Might as well be for our comfort." The CO answered. He looked like he was about to say something else, perhaps about Sucre's new cellmate, but the other guards were bellowing for the cons to retreat back to their cells as yard time was over.

* * *

"Hey, Bellick." Sucre flagged the senior guard over. Captain Bellick ambled over to the cell, where Sucre was leaning against the bars. 

"Do I look like your concierge, Sucre?" The employee demanded, pronouncing Sucre more like "Sucr", as usual. "I got better things to do than see to your every whim."

In his comparatively short time in Fox River, Sucre had learned to ignore this sort of talk. "What's this about me gettin' a new cellmate?" He asked.

Bellick's usual glare melted into an unnerving smirk. "Ah yes. How long's it been since ol' Marty moved out?"

"The Lynx? He's been in the SHU for almost a week now." Sucre replied, frowning and resting his wrists on the bars and allowing his hands to dangle out of the cell.

"That's what I thought." The guard paused for a moment, watching the Puerto Rican. "We're getting a new shipment today, some fresh meat. One of 'em's set to take up residence in number forty here."

"Ay, not a fish." Sucre moaned. "Why you gotta put him with me? I hear Westmoreland's looking for a cellie. He's good with the fishes." He suggested hopefully. He hated being paired with new inmates. They always needed _everything_ explained to them, from who's who to what not to do to how lockdowns work. And they needed so much baby-sitting to keep them alive. Sucre had come to enjoy having the cell to himself; there was _almost_ some privacy that way, plus he could do what he wanted without having to worry about the other person. Westmoreland, on the other hand, seemed to like instructing the new cons. If Sucre was almost sixty-five and had twenty-six years left on his bid at the least, he'd probably find it entertaining too.

"Westmoreland had a bad cough this morning." Bellick replied. A confused expression spread across the other man's face. "Yep, he was coughing all sorts of stuff up." As soon as Sucre saw the greedy look on the guard's face, he understood. The old man must've gotten some money in visitation the day before, and used it to pay off the CO. "Besides, it won't be so bad."

"Oh yeah? What's he in for?" The other man wanted to know.

Bellick shrugged, and the glare was back. "What am I, your match maker? How should I know?"

Sucre lifted his hands slightly in a defensive manner. "Sorry boss, didn't mean to pry."

"Yeah. I'll bet." Bellick retorted sarcastically. He took a deeper look at the cell, taking in both of the unmade beds, the unorganized sink, and the numerous crumpled sheets of paper on the floor. "You writin' a novel in here?" The CO asked, gesturing at the paper.

Sucre twisted to see what he was talking about, and saw the paper. "Oh, no. Just something personal."

"Uh huh. Probably a big ol' fancy exposé about this place." Bellick stopped for a moment. "Say, is my name in that?"

"I'm just trying to figure out how to propose to my girl, Boss."

"Oh." Bellick seemed terribly put out by this. Sucre decided that Bellick would probably find a tell-all book about the penitentiary hilarious-right before he set the manuscript on fire. "Think of it this way: if he lasts, and you behave yourself, this could be your last new cellmate." Sucre considered this for a moment, before nodding. That was a good thought. "Or, then again, he could push you over the edge and give you more time." Sucre made a face as the radio on Bellick's shoulder chirped. "What?" Bellick barked, speaking into the mouthpiece.

"We got a situation in Cell Block B, requesting backup." Sucre could hear the guard on the other end clearly. He watched as Bellick walked away without another word to him.

"Boss? Is he at least sane?" Sucre called after him. "Boss?" If Bellick heard him, he gave no sign of it.

* * *

"Open on forty!" Bellick bellowed a few hours later. Sucre paused where he was, on the floor, picking up the last of the proposal duds. As the door opened, he stood. Moments later, Bellick's portly frame appeared in the doorway. He glanced in at the cell. "Glad to see you at least cleaned this pigsty up. Just in time for your blind date, too." 

Another man appeared in the doorway, holding his stack of possessions. Sucre took a moment to examine the fish. He was quite mediocre-looking: average build, average hair, and only slightly above-average height. This made Sucre uneasy. Bellick would never have assigned him a decent cellmate without cash up front, so there must be something wrong with this guy. "Scofield, meet your new best amigo." Bellick added cheerfully. Too cheerfully for Sucre's liking.

"Nice to meet you." The con called Scofield remarked, not sounding at all glad.

"Welcome to the cell." Sucre replied absently, before frowning at Bellick, unable to figure out what the guard's game was. Sucre was very sure that he hadn't done anything for Bellick lately, so Bellick wouldn't even consider doing him a favor, therefore a normal cellmate was definitely out of the question.

As Scofield moved past Sucre to deposit his prison-issue belongings, Sucre stepped forward to speak with Bellick. "What's the deal, Boss?" He asked immediately, grabbing onto the bars once the door closed.

"What d'you mean?" Bellick asked suspiciously.

Sucre tilted his head towards the new con. "He's _normal_." He stated, as though that explained it all.

Bellick certainly seemed to understand. "And it didn't even cost you money." He remarked, his mouth curved into an eerie grin.

"You're not taking my conjugals, are you?" Sucre demanded, suddenly panicked. He would rather have the racist Bagwell in his cell than lose his time with Maricruz.

"You're highly strung, you know that?" A pause. "You still got your conjugals, don't worry. We got to stick him somewhere, might as well be here. He's a college-boy. For all his book smarts, I don't think he'll last more than a few days in this hellhole, and then we'll find you someone not so normal. I here Haywire's gettin' close to being ready for Gen Pop again." Bellick paused again, for dramatics. "Who knows, maybe Scofield'll go insane." Sucre thought he sounded optimistic about the odds of Scofield losing his mind.

"You mean he's not already crazy?" Sucre asked, voicing his own hope. Bellick gave him a strange look. Sucre sighed exasperated. "The last guy talked in his sleep."

"So? Something like five percent of people talk in their sleep." Bellick pointed out, as he began to walk away.

"Yeah, but this guy talked about killing people." Sucre explained, shuddering slightly. Bellick turned around only to roll his eyes, and continued on.

"I don't sleep talk."

Sucre whirled around. Scofield was looking at him, stuff still in his arms. He looked like he was waiting for directions. Sucre's mouth tightened in irritation. Let the instruction begin, he thought. "Pick a bunk. It's not exactly rocket science, although you probably know all about that."

"All right. Which one is yours?"

Sucre waved a hand and turned back to face the rest of the cells. "Which ever one isn't yours." He answered, before beginning to mutter repetitively in Spanish. Sucre had learned long ago not to care much what the other inmates thought of him. Plus, if Scofield was going to be an idiot and be polite, Sucre would try to accelerate the process of him losing his mind.

"He said your name's Sucre, right?" Scofield asked. Sucre ceased muttering abruptly, and turned around to see him straightening. Scofield had put his stuff on the bottom bunk, leaving Sucre with the top one. The Puerto Rican climbed up to the second bunk, and lay on his back to inspect the ceiling for the thousandth time.

"Sí." Sucre answered shortly.

"You got a first name?"

Sucre hesitated briefly, before answering. "Fernando." He said, rubbing his eyes. Maybe Bellick knew Scofield would never shut up; perhaps that was his punishment. Sucre picked up the magazine he'd left on the top bed early, and started to read.

"Michael Scofield." The other con stated. Sucre managed a grunt in acknowledgement. He heard footsteps, and could only assume Michael had gone to the bars to check out the view. Sucre could not bring himself to care, and returned his attention to the magazine.

Almost twenty minutes later, Sucre realized Scofield was still standing there, watching. It also did not escape his attention that some of the other cons were starting to notice his new cellmate. This violated the golden rule in prison: never draw unnecessary attention to yourself. Sucre stifled a sigh, and sat up. "I suggest you take a seat, Fish." He said, not very kindly. "Ain't nothing to do up in here but serve time. Nobody gonna serve it for you.

Scofield ignored him. This irritated Sucre slightly. Just because he was a little more educated didn't give Scofield the right to disregard Sucre. He was about to comment on this when someone on the floor screamed in agony. Sucre dropped to his feet and joined the Fish by the cell door. Sucre grimaced; one of the other inmates had obviously just been stabbed. The noise level in the cellblock skyrocketed as everyone realized what happened. Scofield was showing no reaction, but from the way he was gripping the bars, Sucre suspected he was just covering his emotions. A good idea. "Welcome to Prisneyland, Fish." Sucre remarked, watching as the guards clustered around the bleeding criminal. Again, no response from his cellie. Sucre sighed. Maybe he'd been too hard on the Fish. Sucre suddenly recalled his first day in Fox River, one he only got through because of his cousin. Being in prison was a hard adaptation to make, and the somber expression on Scofield's face proved that. Scofield looked like he'd gotten off the bus all confident that he could survive this, and now he was likely thinking it would be a miracle if he did. And a stabbing on Scofield's very first day… well, Sucre could understand how he was feeling. "What are you in for?" He asked the first thing that came into his head. The Fish had wanted to talk before, and he seemed to be in need of a little easing of his fears; Scofield needed to get himself together, _now_, or it would be a very long stay in Fox River for him.

This got the new con to turn around. "What?" Scofield questioned. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting any conversation.

"Your crime. What'd you do?" Sucre rephrased it slightly.

Scofield smiled slightly. "Armed robbery." Perhaps it was Sucre's imagination, but it sounded like Scofield found that amusing, as though armed robbery was nothing. Nothing compared to what, though?

"Your first offense?" Sucre asked hopefully.

Scofield nodded. "Yeah."

Sucre sighed faintly. "There are a few rules, of this cell. One," Sucre held up one finger. "No sheet _ever _hangs in front of the door. Ever. I don't know about you, and I don't care, but I got a girlfriend out there. Two," A second finger. "If you snore, you will have problems. Three, if you get me into any trouble whatsoever, you will have bigger problems. Comprende?"

"Comprendo." Scofield replied neutrally, finally sitting down on his bunk.

Sucre continued to be amazed at how average his cellie was. For a convicted felon, anyway.

* * *

He didn't question Scofield's normalcy again until yard time the next day, when the Fish asked about the Sink and then explained that he and Burrows were brothers. For a few days after that, Sucre was a little concerned that the brothers might have more in common than just genes- like violent tendencies, for one thing. Then there was the cell phone debacle, but once Sucre understood exactly why the Fish was in Fox River in the first place- not for armed robbery, but to escape- their relationship became a lot smoother. He would never have thought from that first day, however, that he and Scofield would become close friends. Sucre never would have guessed that Scofield would risk recapture and death to help him get Maricruz back. He never suspected that the Fish would actually find a way to get them out of Fox River. Maybe if he'd know all that, Sucre would have gotten himself a new cellmate, ASAP. 

But then again, Sucre also never thought Michael would survive the first week in Fox River.

* * *

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